


Bad Dreams

by twowritehands



Series: (Dr) Eames [2]
Category: Inception
Genre: But mostly fluff, Established Relationship, Gambling!Eames, M/M, Workaholic!Robert, a semblence of plot, i mean the love scenes are so vanilla, over-coming intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Robert met Eames in the loony bin. The nightmares that had gotten Robert committed still trouble him occasionally, but he has bigger problems now. Like that his con-artist boyfriend might get himself killed, his godfather disapproves of the relationship, and there aren't enough hours in the day to build an new empire. On top of it all, Robert must learn how to confess the alarming depth of emotion he feels for Eames before the conman gets bored and leaves him. Meanwhile, Eames struggles with the devastating secret that will ruin everything if--or when--Robert discovers it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caught Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyrJuhl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrJuhl/gifts).



> Since you asked for it ;)
> 
> It's been sitting in the fan fiction folder for far FAR too long. Maybe it's time to share whether we like it or not. 
> 
> Merry Christmas!

Robert’s back ached. He had spent too long behind the desk. His eyes were strained from the computer screen because he had forgotten to pause every twenty minutes and focus on other things in the room. And he could use a smoke—the goddamn patch on his arm wasn't doing shit.

He sighed and shut his lab top, leaned back in his desk chair, which groaned as far back as it would go, and the motion wheeled him backwards several inches across the hardwood floor of his quiet, lonely home office.

Pressing on his eyes and drawing deep breaths, he wondered again why exactly he ever thought it would be worth it to break up the empire and build something of his own. Oh, yeah, because it would make Maurice proud.

Then he wondered why he cared about making that mean old bastard proud. Oh, yeah, because that mean old bastard was Dad, and Dad had always cared, in his own way. So with another sigh (this one more of a gasp for nicotine) Robert straightened in his chair and rolled back to his desk.

Like it always did, thoughts of his father, the old empire, and his new pursuits with the empire, instilled in him a drive to keep going. He could not stop until he had proven himself. Uncle Peter, his friends, the world, all of them were looking at him, waiting for him to prove that he had known what he was doing, that he had not gone crazy, when he dissolved Fischer-Morrow.

A twinge between his shoulder blades pulled his spine as straight as it would go, and he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. The clock said 7:00 PM. Just one more hour, Robert promised himself. He had other half-conceived promises forming in the back of his mind of breaking down and having a smoke, as a kind of reward, if he could just go one more hour.

He had been so lost in thought he heard nothing to warn him. The apartment was quiet, empty but for him. Or, at least, that was what he believed until heavy, strong hands gripped his shoulders.

Robert gave a start and looked around, expelled sounds of relief and laughter when he recognized the face that belonged to the fingers, which were now massaging the tension right out of his neck.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Eames’ baritone English purr filled the silence of the home office and worked as a muscle relaxer for Robert’s entire body. He was instantly at ease, though pleasant things inside were suddenly awakened from a deep slumber, a swarm of merry bees excited into flight.

“Eames!” he breathed, closing his eyes and sagging into the soothing massage delivered to him by the home intruder. God, it was good. “You’re home…” he murmured. Eames stopped his work, and only then did Robert realize the implications of his statement. Eames did not live here. He did not even have a key (though clearly that did not keep him out).

Sure, Eames came here a lot, always fresh out of some con, always making himself comfortable right beside Robert as if he had not been away. But that did not mean this was his home. Before Robert could even think of a way to recover the statement, Eames was chuckling and massaging again. “I’d say I’m sorry I’m late, but I don’t think you’ve noticed.”

“What?” Robert looked at the clock, remembered the call Eames had made earlier with the news that he was in the country and the arrangement they had made for Eames to arrive at five, “Oh, yeah. I lost track of—well, a lot of things. God, I get so wrapped up in it all.” He shut the lap top again as if to sever ties with it, then sighed dramatically dropping his hands onto the ones on his shoulders. “Thank God for you, or else I’d work myself into an early grave.”

The massaging stopped again, and Robert’s chair whirled around under the force of Eames’ grip. The conman held the arm rests and leaned his weight on the chair. It rolled back until it was against the desk, and then Eames poised above Robert, smiling devilishly. “Don’t thank God for me; I’m capable of working you into an early grave in other ways... and I’m thinking about giving some of them a go right now.”

Robert curled his fingers around the lapels of Eames’ jacket and tugged. It was all the urging Eames needed to stop his teasing and start his kissing. He skipped light caresses and nibbles, went straight to consuming Robert’s mouth entirely. Exactly how long it had been since Eames’ last visit was evident in this almost animal way that Eames’ mouth took Robert’s.

Sounds jumped out of Robert, straight into Eames and he lost his grip on the jacket, tugged at the Brit’s loud blue and yellow patterned silk shirt before sliding his hands over the smooth fabric around his ribcage, under Eames’ jacket, to his broad back.

The firm muscles under the silk excited Robert. Eames was ten years his senior but in even better shape than most men he knew. The conman might have liked to traipse all over the laws of civilization, blurring the lines between right and wrong and risking his life, but he had this thing about health. He ate properly, exercised, he did not even drink that much; only what the roles he played demanded. Robert was giving up cigarettes just for him.

Eames allowed Robert to stand in order to get a better hold on him. The kiss never broke as the chair was kicked to the side. Eames pulled the slighter man hard against himself, then Robert took control, turning Eames and pressing into the heavier man until the backs of his thighs hit the desk. Robert was smaller, but Eames surrendered under his force like this every single time, gave him anything he wanted without hesitation.

The conman broke the kiss and hopped up onto the desk, wriggled his eyebrows as he captured Robert between his knees. With both hands on Eames’ firm chest, Robert stopped him from picking up on the kiss where they had left off.

“Where were you?”

“When?” Eames asked, tugging Robert’s shirt out of his trousers. A valid question; he had been all over the globe since his last visit.

“Today,” Robert answered, “How did _you_ lose track of time?”

Eames did not answer at first, too focused on unbuttoning Robert’s white and black pin-striped shirt. Slender fingers closed around Eames’ thicker ones to stop him and the older man pouted, full lips looking unbelievably kissable as he did so.

“Are we really going to be making idle chit chat at a time like this?” he tightened his legs around Robert and for once used the advantage of his biceps to draw the thin businessman in despite his resistance.

Sheer desire had Robert allowing the kiss to happen. (He was not so much weaker than Eames that he could not have gotten away if he really wanted to.) He let the kiss go on, shoving Eames’ jacket off his shoulders and hooking his fingers in the collar of the silk shirt. He made to tug, rip it open--to hell with the buttons--but Eames broke the kiss, catching his fingers to stop him. “No, this is one of my favorites.”

Robert quirked an eyebrow and then put on a mimicking pout, said in an English accent, “ _Are we really going to be worrying about shirts at a time like this_?” he tightened his grip on the collar, now with both hands, and Eames’ laugh was a little forced, his full attention now on the hostage situation going on below his chin, “Yes, I know, darling, but you see they so rarely make them like this anymore and—“

In one violent outward motion, the buttons popped one right after the other and Robert had ripped the shirt wide open. Eames cried out, literally shoved Robert away as though he might be able to save a friend if he could just get the murderer away fast enough. Robert laughed as he stumbled back several steps, escaped buttons sliding under the soles of his shoes, and watched Eames scoop up the wayward ends of his shirt to examine the damage.

Green eyes snapped up to Robert, who had to tear his hungry gaze from the sight of Eames’ body in order to look him in the eye. He gave a half shrug with the promise, “I’ll buy you a hundred just like it, Eames.”

A wicked grin spread moist lips and the well-toned body slid from the desk, “But I liked _this one_.”

“I can’t see why, it’s hideous,” Robert confessed as he undid the last of the buttons on his own much more acceptable shirt and lost it. Eames picked at the threads on his hideous clothes, where buttons used to be, shook his head and looked back up at Robert, suddenly advancing, “I’m going to kick your ass.”

Robert turned with a snorted, “ho shit!” and fled the office with Eames on his heels.

He made it to the living room before a thick arm hooked around his waist and up he went, bodily over the back of the couch. He landed on his face on the cushions, laughing. He flopped over, kicked out of his shoes and then Eames was there, over him, pinning him in another deep, unbelievably arousing kiss. God, it had been so long, too long--months--since he had felt Eames.

A low groan rolled out of Robert and he managed to change their positions, pinning his stronger partner to the cushions with ease because, once again, Eames surrendered entirely. Robert pressed his pelvis into the magnificent man beneath him and the grip on his hips encouraged him to chase the pleasure, to find a rhythm, and go. He did.

He ground against the firmness beneath him. Eames’ eyelids fluttered and Robert’s breath shivered out of him. Eames pulled down on him, pushing up against him, growling in pleasure and frustration. Robert had intended to be inside him, but they had not made it to the bedroom so did not have what they needed, and they would both rather die than allow a pause now, however brief the race upstairs might be.

Straining against him, breathless, Robert nibbled the very bottom of Eames’ ear, and the man arched with a low cry, his wide hand gripping the back of Robert’s head firmly, his one leg closing tighter around him, the other pressing even firmer up between Robert's. Every writhing move Eames made beneath him was a command, a desperate plea, _don’t stop_ , _darling, don’t you dare stop_.

He did not, would not, could not. Robert moved fervently, aching, remembering the feeling of being inside his wandering lover and imagining it now, wanting it, promising he would have it later if he could just do this now.

Eames suddenly gasped, his breath hitching and leaping out of him, and then he shuddered, gripped Robert tightly with something so like a sob that Robert joined him in his climax right then and there, so suddenly he saw stars.

He slumped against Eames, who was still holding on, and attempted to get his breath back as he listened to the racing heart under a firm pectoral against his ear. The thump of that heart was like a tiny fist pounding, trying to sock one to Robert’s jaw. He grinned, relished that he could get a heart going like that inside a man like Eames.

Eames was the kind of thing you dreamed about, not what you actually got. He was enthralling, a conman with mysterious origins, various hidden talents, and scars. In fact, Robert needed only tilt his face forward a tiny bit to press his lips against a bullet wound. _A bullet wound_. Eames had others, a one inch long diagonal scar across his back from being stabbed, literally _stabbed_ , in the back, and burns on his right leg from his pants having been caught on fire, (liar, liar).

When Eames told the stories of these scars, all of them past cons gone horribly wrong, he might as well have been recounting scenes from actions movies, and he was funny about it. His whole life was one elaborate crime right after another, and yet he joked about it, recounted it all with the light humor of someone telling stories of innocent fun from their college years.

It took meeting Eames for Robert to realize how little he had actually laughed in his life while his father was alive. Since they had met in Sydney a year ago, Eames dropped into Robert’s life at random often unexpected moments, and, following each of his arrivals, Robert spent all of his time either laughing with or fucking the scoundrel.

He remembered how Eames had let himself into the apartment, found Robert tense and immediately began a massage… He was thoughtful like that, so giving and gentle. As for letting himself into the apartment, it was not the first time.

Robert had often come home to find the criminal on the couch, sleeping, or he had stepped out of the shower to find Eames shaving. The locks were never broken, nothing ever missing or out of place. It seemed the only thing in the apartment that Eames was at all interested in was Robert.

 _You’re home_ , Robert had said without thinking. He had said it because it felt so right to have Eames around here; he could tramp all over the world, but this was where he belonged. Robert felt it with enough certainty that he shivered as he lay listening to Eames’ heart.

Eames, still holding on, shifted and made room for him on the couch beside him, held him tight once again as soon as he was comfortably in place. Robert closed his eyes against the satisfying feeling of Eames’ fingers through his hair. He was so glad to have him, hoped it never ended.

Sudden jealously twisted in his gut and he blurted out before he could stop himself, “Where were you today?”

“Hm?” Eames asked and the sound was heavy with sleep. No, Eames was not allowed to avoid the question twice. Robert went to his elbow, repeated the question, adding on, “When you called, I was _so happy_ to hear from you,” this was hard enough for Robert to admit, but he charged on, fueled by that jealousy, “I wanted you to come to me right then, but you promised five o clock. Then you were late. Why? I thought you were as eager as I was for us to be together again. Where were you?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Robert hardened in self-defense. The ambiguity in response to his truth forced him to retreat swiftly back into whatever shell his life had given him so far. “Why won’t you tell me?” he asked, managing to sound nonplussed about it, just curious.

Eames chuckled, “Because I’m aware that one of the only things I have going for me is my air of mystery. I don’t want to ruin it; I know how much you like it.”

“Alex,” Robert warned, leaving it at that because he did not have a threat formed yet. Eames cut in before he needed one,

“It’s not another man, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Robert snorted, though that was exactly it. The thought of sharing had never ever been appealing to Robert. When something was his, no one else was allowed to touch it.

From the beginning, when Eames would leave to go do god-knew-what, Robert had been constantly wrestling the green snake, but he had successfully kept it in check. Until now. Now he could not stand it anymore, the notion of Eames having others. Not after Eames had held him so desperately, sobbed as he came apart under Robert, just from Robert grinding on him.

Eames grinned at Robert’s poorly disguised snort of denial and reassured, “It’s not a woman, either.”

“I _know_ ,” Robert replied, though he had not really and was now vastly relieved. Eames caught Robert’s jaw in his fingertips calloused from daily diabetic blood tests, locked eyes with him, and put on a charming smile, but with a flutter of his lashes that Robert had already learned meant he was being brutally honest with himself, “I’m entirely devoted to you, love.”

Robert dropped down from his elbow, pressed his ear to Eames’ chest once more, aware that now would be the time to return similar sentiments, but talking about feelings so close to his heart was _not_ something he had learned to do easily in his father’s house. He held Eames instead, fluttered some kisses over his chest and hoped the man knew, could feel how much Robert wanted him here, hoped he knew that Robert had been with no one else since they began, either.

“I was at the race track,” Eames answered finally. Robert snorted, “No surprise there, why were you trying to hide it from me?”

Eames sighed, covered his eyes and the groan that slipped out was one of great pain, “The horse got a cramp! A bloody _cramp_!” he laughed in the way someone does when that is all they have left and shook his head, “You know how much I hate to lose.”

“Really? You do it so much, I would think you loved it,” Robert teased.

“I still owe you for that shirt, so watch it,” Eames murmured, his eyes drooping back closed. They fell into blissful silence for several seconds before the hunger in Robert’s stomach finally made itself heard after hours of silent patience. He had worked right through lunch.

Eames sat up, as if the sound was an order from a commanding officer. “Let’s clean up and get something to eat.”

They stood from the couch and when Eames got ahead of Robert on the way upstairs for fresh clothes, blue eyes went instantly to the knife scar under Eames’ shoulder blade on an otherwise unblemished, well-toned back. _I’m entirely devoted to you, love_. The words had flipped Robert’s stomach over with pleasure, ballooned his heart with satisfaction, but now, looking at that scar, they twisted his gut with fear.

Shot in the chest, stabbed in the back, caught on fire, those were only the close-calls that had left scars. Eames traveled the world pretending to be a doctor, lawyer, cop, mailman, priest, or whatever he wanted, flying in the face of the law or powerful and dangerous people every step of the way and sometimes he was caught, barely escaping with his life. He nearly died more often than his scars could say.

Suddenly thankful Eames had not died yet, Robert could not resist the urge to capture him in the hallway at the top of the stairs, wrap his arms around the bulky frame and kiss the old knife wound. Eames laughed when the pale arms ensnared him. “Alright, love?”

 _Love_. This particular pet name was Robert's favorite and it made him smile against the skin under his lips, “Stay with me.”

“I am,” Eames assured and he continued walking even though Robert did not let go, letting himself be trailed behind like a villain’s expensive cape. “In fact,” Eames laughed squeezing Robert’s hands to his chest like he would not mind if they stayed there forever, “my immediate plans are to use your shower, raid your fridge, and then ride you for as long as you can stand it.”

“What if that’s for longer than just a week or two?” Robert asked. Eames stopped ambling forwards and pried Robert’s arms from around his ribs so that he could turn to face him with a frown.

“What are you saying, Robert?”

Robert swallowed direct orders for Eames to refrain from all illegal activity from now on. He stopped himself from saying something as stupid as, _if you really love me, you aren’t allowed to take risks anymore. You aren’t allowed to leave me._ Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I want you to stay here when you aren’t working. I want you to live here, with me.”

His blood warmed as he watched Eames look away, watched those thick eyelashes flutter as he drew in a sudden breath. There was a moment of silence as Eames looked at the floor, clearly thinking it through, and then green eyes bounced up to meet Robert’s blue and a big smile lit up a scruffy face. Eames leaned in to nip Robert’s bottom lip, “I’ll call for my things tomorrow,” he said.

Robert cleaned himself up as Eames jumped in the shower, singing a silly song in his unmasked euphoria. _You can talk him out of his work later_ , Robert reassured himself, _You have more than enough money to support the both of you so he never has to con again._ Really, it was only a matter of keeping him, which Robert was not worried about. He was far too used to getting the things he wanted.

And what he wanted was Eames, the rascal, sinner, miscreant that he was.


	2. Driven

Eames’ things came and Robert marveled at the three suitcases. That was it. That was one man’s entire life. Everything he owned fit into a matching luggage set. Eames shrugged, “I live a nomadic life, gorgeous.”

“You _lived_ a nomadic life,” Robert corrected. Eames jumped an eyebrow.

“Trying to tame me, are you?”

“Why else would I keep feeding a stray?”

Another perk came from Eames moving in: his intoxicating presence kept Robert’s insomnia well at bay these days. Unfortunately, even in sleep as deep as the blissful torpor of sex-overload, the bad dreams still came back every now and then.

Stress-induced nightmares had started to plague Robert shortly after his father’s death. They were vivid, elaborate and random. (Why would he dream of falling off a skyscraper in the middle of a hurricane? Or a snowy mountainside avalanching on him?) At first, Robert had been afraid these inexplicable dreams had meant he truly had gone crazy in the grief of losing his father, as everyone had believed. But he had not lost his mind. He _knew_ it, but sometimes he was in doubt, and Eames would be there to help him believe again.

It was therapeutic the way Eames stayed there, be it in the seat next to him or on the mattress wrapped up in him, just listening, _really listening_ , as Robert rambled on and on about the confusing things happening in his head. No one but Eames knew what Robert dreamed. No one but Eames really cared. Robert had no idea why, but somehow the conman seemed genuinely interested in it all.

_Dad was slipping away, weaker than ever but panicked, trying to speak through the gasps. His liver-spotted hands had surprising strength as they grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down so that his staggered breath was in Robert’s ear. His words were garbled and impossible to make out except for one word, “… disappointed...” But Robert did not need to know what those other words were, because he looked into his father’s eyes, and right before the life in them slipped away, he saw in them what his father had wanted to say._

_I’m disappointed that you tried to be me._

_His eyes were glassy and empty as his grip on Robert, which a moment ago had been so strong and full of life, let loose and his hands fell. Dad was dead. Robert had not gotten to say goodbye, or any of the things he had always wanted to say. Dad was gone, and it was too late. It was too late to make him proud. It was too late to make apologies. It was too late to tell him that he had always loved him anyway._

_Should-haves and could-haves and if-onlys crashed around Robert and he thought of his mother and how she would be ashamed of him for not trying harder, for letting the old man die before anything was worked out between them. Robert had let them both down. He was a horrible son. He should have been stronger, should have been himself, shown his father that it was okay to be Robert because the world already had a Maurice._

_I’m disappointed that you tried to be me_.

Robert woke with a gasp to find himself in his bed, in his room. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, hot streaks into his hair. He was out of breath and it was all still there, still pressing in on him how much he failed as a son, as a man. He had to fix it. He had to fix it. He had already started to, the empire was broken up, but it wasn’t right yet. He had to build another one, one all his own, and then maybe it would be okay. Maybe, then, it would be okay.

He ripped the sheets away, not thinking about the time, but with only a mind to go to his office, to start working. He sat up, still panting and sniffing, and touched his feet to the hardwood floor before strong hands gripped him by the elbows, staying him gently. “Hey, hey, hey,” Eames whispered in the dark, sitting up and sliding over the sheets until his lips found the skin of Robert’s shoulder, “Hm? What is it?”

Robert had forgotten about the man in his bed entirely—thoughts of Maurice’s death tended to do that, wipe absolutely everything away until all that was left was the certainty that he had failed his father and would continue doing so until he had built his own empire. But with Eames’ touch came a desperately needed reminder: he was not alone.

He whirled around, throwing his thin pale arms around Eames. He blinked back his burning tears—crying was not an option Robert was at all comfortable with, even in the dark of his room and the warm security of Eames’ embrace. “Dad again,” he answered tightly.

Eames swore. Robert didn’t know why, but sometimes he thought he detected self-loathing and guilt in the responses Eames had to this nightmare. Strong arms tightened around him and pulled him back into the bed entirely. “It’s a good job the old bastard had the sense to die straight afterward,” Eames growled, reclining on the pillows, “Or I’d kill him for saying that to you.”

“He meant well—was trying to help,” Robert said settling against him and Eames pushed his fingers through Robert’s hair, “But look at what it’s doing to you, love. You’re going to kill yourself trying to make a dead man happy.”

Robert tensed, “You don’t think I can do it?”

“You thought breaking up the empire would do it, but you’ve done that and you still aren’t satisfied. It’s like you’re letting these dreadful thoughts _grow_ and you can’t do that, Robert. You have to move on.”

“First of all, I never said breaking up the empire would do it,” Robert defended, “I said that would be a _start_. Second of all, I’m not letting my thoughts _grow_ into worse thoughts. Maybe I forget sometimes that it’s not a race and I’m still young with lots of time, but I’m not convincing myself of new things every day or anything like that.”

Robert sighed wearily and snuggled into Eames. “I just need to remember to have patience. No one ever said building a billion dollar corporation would be quick and easy. It’ll be thirty years before it’s as big as Fischer-Morrow was.” He yawned; the stroking of blunt nails across his scalp already lulling him back to sleep.

“Patience—very good, love,” Eames said, sounding vastly relieved through a yawn of his own. “I always knew you weren’t actually crazy.”

Robert chuckled, “Sometimes I feel like someone deliberately tried to make me crazy, though.”

Eames said nothing but Robert continued through yet another yawn, “You know, with one of those PASIV devices that psychologists have, I’ll bet it’s not hard.”

“Stop talking nonsense and go back to sleep,” Eames murmured.

Robert smiled into the darkness, heavy eyelids sliding shut. A gentle shake and nudge pulled him back to consciousness and Eames whispered in his ear with a gentle kiss on the lobe,

“No matter what you might find out about what I’ve done, _please_ don’t forget how much I love you.”

Robert heard every word, did not understand the first part of it and made a mental note to ask for clarification in the morning. Meanwhile there was something much more important: I love you.

Robert found that hearing the words was just a solidification of something he had already known. He made a noise that was his attempt to reassure his lover that nothing could make him forget a thing like that. But actual syllables were lost in the cloak of sleep and in the morning he would not remember to ask for that clarification.

**…  …  …**

Three days later, Robert was actually laughing and enjoying himself at the office--regular sex did wonders on his attitude-- when he managed to drip coffee onto his tie. Swearing and not finding anything very funny anymore, he slipped into his office to put on a new one and leave the soiled tie for his assistant to deal with. He was one step in the door, though, when he was caught up in strong, familiar arms.

Scruff scratched on Robert’s cheek as Eames said, “I could hear you laughing down the hall just now. Warms my heart to know you’re missing me so much you can’t enjoy life.”

“Eames,” Robert chortled, turning in the hold to put his arms up around his lover’s incredibly broad shoulders, “I had you twice this morning which was barely _four_ _hours_ ago; how can I miss you?”

Eames bit his bottom lip--Eames, big, strong, _intimidating_ Eames--bit his lip as he grinned. (He was forever doing these unexpected sexy little nothings that drove Robert wild.) He looked up through his long eyelashes, “I was asking myself the same question when I was at home just now, _aching_ for you.”

Robert smiled at the _home_ , which had so naturally slid right off Eames’ tongue but he pulled out of Eames’ hold and went to the cupboard to select a new tie to replace the coffee stained one. “You’re so needy,” he said playfully. “Hope you aren’t here for an office quickie.”

“Proper idea, that, but sadly no,” Eames sighed and crossed the room to comb fingers through Robert’s hair. “I've come to tell you I won’t be home when you get in tonight. I’m off--got a job.” His eyes were bright with adventure--they always were on the promise of the con he was formulating in his head--and he leaned in to kiss Robert short and sweetly, “Couldn't dream of leaving without a goodbye kiss.” He kissed him again, mouth all-consuming this time as if he wanted to pack into this moment all the kissing they would miss after he was gone.

Robert was breathless when they parted, “How long will you be?”

That didn’t sound like a 1940s woman in the arms of a soldier leaving for the war. It _did not_. But _something_ made Eames smile so that all his crooked teeth showed. He bumped noses with Robert, answered, “Just a few weeks. Then I’m straight back home. I promise.”

 _Home_ , third use in under a minute, Robert could not stop the giggle and it was that sheer happiness that prompted the next question, something he had never asked before. “What’s the work?”

Eames tut-tutted, still smiling that wide open smile, “The less you know the better.”

“Where?” Robert demanded. Surely he could know that much at least. Eames studied him for a moment and finally seemed to reach that conclusion himself. “We’ll base out of Beijing.” Then it was all over Eames’ face that he was not sure he should have said even that much. Robert understood, conveyed as much with a curt nod, lips pressed together in a nonverbal promise of a secret keeper.

He leaned in and kissed Eames one more time--kept it short because he was already running late because of the tie, so an office quickie was out of the question right now. “I’ll see you when you get home, then.”

Eames’ eyes were sparkling as he pulled away and walked backwards to the door, “I like the sound of that.”

Robert knew he meant _home_. It was too close to the emotions swelling in his chest so Robert could not meet Eames’ eyes as he admitted with a shy smile, “Me too.”

**…  …  …**

Five weeks later, Robert carried a dirty bowl to the sink when he heard the scrap of a key in his lock. A moment later, the door opened and Eames breezed in, dropped a bag under the coat rack with a weary sigh.

“You have a key,” Robert said stupidly, by way of greeting. Eames looked up sharply, having been too tired to properly notice Robert standing in the kitchen entrance way. The weary law breaker sighed again upon finding he was not in danger and his shoulders drooped as he leaned his weight into the wall, “I’ve had a key for ages, love.”

“Of course you have,” Robert said, blindly putting the bowl on the counter and heading for Eames in long, brisk strides. In three he was there, arms around the strongest, sweetest man he knew. “I missed you.”

Five weeks without a single phone call--if not for work as a distraction, Robert might have gone crazy. He did not even know where to start in saying _I’m unbelievably happy to see you’re alive and well_ in a casual way so he did not. But he was. God, he was.

Eames squeezed back, “I missed you, too, and there’s all kinds of things I want to do to you, but--“ he muffled a yawn into Robert’s neck, “It’s actually five o clock tomorrow for me, gorgeous, so do you mind if I just go to sleep now?”

Robert was already herding him toward the stairs and the bedroom. “How did it go?”

“Off without a hitch, and I’m nearly as rich as your big toe for it. _God_ , I love my work.”

The young businessman chortled, “Oh, as rich as the _big_ one, really? Wow, that’s got to be, what, ball park of ten million?”

“There, you see?” Eames slapped his thigh as they started the climb up the stairs. He beamed at Robert, poked him in the chest, “I always suspected you knew your worth down to the dime.”

“Yep, and it’s flattering that you know it, too.” When they reached the top, Robert walked so that he could murmur in Eames’ ear, “now tell me what my cock is worth.”

“Priceless, darling; it’s like putting a tag on a _soul_ ,” he yawned here, practically cutting the last word off and Robert broke into laughter.

“Well, don’t go getting too excited by just talking about it.”

“ _Beijing_ , love, you do know it’s on _that_ side of the globe, right?”

“Yes, yes,” they were in the bedroom now and Robert tugged him to the bed. “Sleep. I know. We’re going right now.”

“We?” Eames asked, collapsing on the mattress. Robert commenced to pulling shoes off of Eames’ huge feet.

“Like hell am I just going to hang out downstairs when I can hang onto _you_ instead.”

“Ah, look everyone! My Robby is starved for me.” Eames reached up and caressed Robert’s face as he climbed into bed with the conman. “Who’s the needy one now?”

Robert rolled his eyes but had no reply, simply dropped his head on Eames’ shoulder. Eames’ arms fell around him, he groaned in comfort, and within moments, he was asleep. Robert lay there smiling and listening to his body settling into REM sleep.

**…  …  …**

Eames did not work again for two months. It was the longest Robert had ever seen Eames stay in one place.

Living with him came with some unexpected bumps. The man did not pick up a single thing he dropped. Ever. Coats pooled below the coat rack or clean shirts still on the hanger heaped on the closet floor. Shoes rarely even made it near the shoe rack in the closet. Things that slid off tables or counter tops were just kicked to the side. The soap was often on the shower floor as well as shampoo bottles and the like.

Eames always slept in, sometimes until noon. He liked to eat in bed and not the kinds of things that were sexy like strawberries, but crumbly things or things that went best with dark sauce and needed knives to cut up properly. One time, Robert found half a well-endowed sub sandwich was sharing the bed with them.

But the perks vastly outweighed these little annoyances. Eames was always happy to give deep massages or double the shower capacity. At night, every single night, he lay there listening in the dark to Robert’s day or his worries. He left notes here or there, jokes or sweet nothings or erotic doodles. The British spelling always made Robert grin for some reason.

He exercised regularly, long vigorous workouts, maintaining muscles he would never need to use now that water came in from pipes and nobody cut down trees with handsaws anymore. But Robert was not complaining. Eames had the time and energy to cultivate lines like an anatomy diagram and Robert got to reap the benefits.

But Eames did not do it for vanity. Not entirely anyway. Robert had known early on that Eames was a health nut. But he had not realized it was because of more than vanity, more than that narcissistic love of himself, until he had learned it was because of fear.

“Dad was forty nine,” Eames admitted one night, “seemed healthy enough until one day…” he sighed, eyes distant and sad. He shook his head. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Robert did not know what to say, because Eames already knew that he had not gotten to say goodbye to Maurice either, despite having been at his sick bed daily for weeks knowing the end was nigh. Robert could say something about understanding, or lighten the mood with something about how perfect they were for each other, but he did not because that stuff--Eames already knew that stuff.

All he did was take Eames’ hand, lacing their fingers. Eames lifted one corner of his mouth and they moved on from there, back to making the healthy dinner Eames had insisted on making for Robert which had gotten them on the topic. Robert picked up a piece of cucumber and fed it to Eames, made sure the conman chased it with a kiss.

“Perfect,” was all that Robert could say before he turned back to his work slicing the vegetables.

“Perfect,” Eames agreed.


	3. The Impossible Question

Robert abandoned making any sense of the marketing printouts he had been attempting to read and slapped them down to his cotton gym-pants before tossing the folder over with others beside him on the bed. He looked across the room to the closet, where Eames had started packing a suitcase. Robert spoke as if the conversation they’d had three hours ago had never ended with Robert’s yielding words of, _okay, fine, do what you have to do_. He was taking back the yield now.

“Six _months_ , that’s ridiculous!” he crossed his arms, unaware of how bitchy it made him look because Eames loved it too much to point it out to him. “Why should any job of yours take six months?”

“The elaborate ones can take up to a year, Rob,” Eames was smiling because of the crossed arms, but to Robert it was some kind of condescending smirk.

“ _Fuck_ the elaborate ones,” Robert snapped.

“I like the elaborate ones,” Eames looked up from where he shoved a fist full of rolled-up socks into the case. He was grinning and when his voice was soft like that in the face of Robert’s anger, it was a testament to how true it was.

“ _Six months_ , though!” Robert cried. He shifted his weight off the headboard, leaning forward on a hand on the quilt in front of him, “What am I supposed to do for half a year?”

“We’ll call, maybe even e-mail and Skype. Can’t guarantee internet service, though.”

“Where are you going again?”

“I didn’t tell you before, and I’m not going to tell you now.”

“Why not?”

Eames left the luggage case and approached the bed, stooping to give Robert a kiss, “It’s safer, Rob. You know that.”

“I’d never ever give you away.”

“No, but you’d get it in your head to drop everything and come see me or something. If you don’t know where I am, you’ll stay out of danger.”

Robert rolled his eyes, “I’m not some pathetic needy teenager. And I’m not an _idiot_.”

“You are crazy about me, though,” Eames said wisely.

Robert made a reluctant affirmative in the back of his throat, and Eames sat down on the edge of the bed, weight sinking the mattress, an arm hooking around Robert’s legs at the knees to hold them. He grinned. “That means you’ll do crazy shit just to see me. I know I go stupid just to see you. I’m _here_ , aren’t I?”

“Will it really be so dangerous?” Robert’s voice came out in a whisper, laced with apprehension he failed to hide this time.

Eames’ green eyes flitted down to Robert’s legs he had tucked under one arm, then over to the floor of the bedroom, then back to Robert’s face and the smile he gave was entirely put on. And for the first time Robert realized he knew the difference.

“Nothing I can’t handle, love.”

“For fuck’s sake, _be_ _careful_ ,” Robert commanded.

Eames gave a curt, but smiling, two-fingered salute, and Robert shoved him. Eames lifted from the bed, drawing his knees up under him so he could crawl up Robert’s body.

“Just six months,” he stopped with knees on either side of Robert’s hips and sat back so that his ass pressed Robert’s legs into the bed, “Who knows, maybe I can steal away a mini vacation at the half way point and come home for a few nights?”

“No guarantees, though, right?”

“Never any in my work.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Robert said out loud without meaning to. He sat up to grab hold of Eames. He explained himself before being prompted to, eyes fixed on the opposite wall because that was easier to look at than his boyfriend as he admitted, “I don’t want you to go and get yourself knifed or blown up or--or--“

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Eames’ fingers rubbed drunken circles through the fine hairs at the nape of Robert’s neck. “You make it sound like I’m going into a war zone.”

“Bullet wounds don’t happen from sitting around a space heater eating Easy Mac in a storage unit for six months.” He thumped Eames’ shoulder, the scar from a .22.

Eames ignored the mention of his past near-death experience and instead snorted at the reference to the descriptions he’d given of a typical job, “Most of it _is_ like that, though. It’s just planning, Rob. We plan it out so well, it goes off without a hitch. The danger’s only how much we’re risking within the brief window of time that we’re actually pulling the con.”

“Then plan from _here,_ ” he thumped the mattress and did not give a fuck that he sounded like a spoiled brat not getting his way. Because he sort of knew that was exactly what he was.

Eames chortled, kissed him, and climbed out of the bed and went back to packing, “Seen my spare insulin pen, love?”

“In my laptop case,” Robert motioned to the case down beside the bedside table. Eames scooped it up and pulled out the pen. “Thanks.” The room went silent, conversation abandoned. Eames was not answering Robert’s suggestion to plan his cons from here, because he knew that Robert was already aware of how impossible that was.

Robert pouted and watched Eames busy-body around, gathering up the essentials but not, Robert noted with stubbornly repressed-on-principle joy, _everything_ he owned.

Eames left winter clothes in the closet, as well as all but one of the nice suits Robert had gotten him so that he would blend into the corporate world easier. He took Robert’s shampoo and deodorant, leaving his own. (Jumping an eyebrow when he saw Robert notice this and saying, “If I can’t kiss you, least I can smell you.” Robert refused to smile no matter how much he nearly did.)

The sound of the zipper of Eames’ case was long and low, drawn out into the silence and Robert kept his mouth set in a stubborn line, finally uncrossed his arms to pick up his laptop and open it as if he was going to get back to work.

Eames stood there, staring in patient silence. Robert pushed a finger around his track pad and tried to make sense of the Exel spread sheet.

In Robert’s peripheral vision, Eames shouldered the bag. Waited.

Robert almost looked up, clenched his jaw and finally managed to make sense of the title of the spreadsheet. Eames broke the silence, softly, apologetically, “love?”

It was harder than ever, but Robert did not look up.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eames pull his phone from his pocket. A moment later, Robert received an IM from **mr_EAMESvia his smart phone:** Give us a kiss?

Robert ignored it. A moment later, he got a virtual nudge and another message.

 **mr_EAMES via his smartphone _:_** Won’t you please get out of our bed and give me a proper goodbye?

Robert closed the messaging window and signed out of the program, still without a glance in Eames’ direction, heart pounding and face flushing with the audacity of his own stubborn streak.

“Goddammit, Robert!” Eames snapped angrily, sliding his phone shut with a loud snap and slamming his bag hard to the floor. He marched over to the bed, grabbed Robert’s laptop by the screen—“HEY!”--and whipped the contraption to the foot of the bed where it landed and closed itself on impact. Eames never spared it a glance, grabbing Robert by the front of his shirt and kissing the breath out of him.

“Say you’ll miss me.”

Panting, “I’ll miss you.”

Eames put on a pleasantly surprised face, as if Robert’s sentiment had been out of the blue. “Oh, love, I’ll miss you too.”

Robert did not laugh on the outside. “Just go so you can be back already.”

Eames winked, and then Robert was home alone.

**…  …  …**

Internet service came through after all, so Robert at least had a folder of love letters in the corner of his desktop at the three-month marker of Eames’ absence. The conman was terribly good at giving lengthy reports without mentioning a single aspect of his job, his colleagues, or his location.

Mostly, each email was about how he had thought of Robert that day. Most of them had naughty fantasies written out with stunning detail. These ones Robert memorized to do in person when the scoundrel finally returned to him.

As much as Robert hated to admit it, work kept him distracted enough, and the emails kept him updated enough that he was not as tortured by the rogue’s heartless abandonment as he had insisted he would be when trying to get Eames to stay.

Robert missed Eames, of course, and the saucy emails made him ache through nights without him, but he knew how to live alone and did so just fine. However, he was going to pretend otherwise when Eames got home. No need to give him permission to go off on a longer job. Robert just wanted Eames _here_ , full-time, therefore Robert would act like he needed it.

His response emails were easy to fill with happy updates about the company, but Robert always edited himself as much as possible on that regard—reminded himself that quarter reports were not romantic—but never held back about the returning nightmares, or how badly he needed someone to come home to, someone who understood him like Eames did. (This was only slightly exaggerated. But Robert had set his mind to getting Eames home ASAP before something bad happened.)

It was not fast enough.

Robert was waiting for an email. He had not gotten one in over two weeks, and it was beginning to worry him. Did that mean they had actually started the con and he could not risk it? A con lasting so long did not sound safe at all. Robert stopped sleeping at night, so he was awake when the front door opened down stairs. It was a noise his ears had been subconsciously straining to hear this whole time.

Leaping out of bed, he only just remembered to take the baseball bat with him in case it was not the man he loved, but he knew it was. It was Eames, home early. Robert ran to the top of the stairs and hit the master switch there, which turned on all the lights in the house. The familiar shape of the conman was the most welcomed sight in the world.

“Eames!” Robert shouted happily, dropping the bat as he flew down the steps. Eames started in surprise, hissed and grabbed his side, but laughed as the baseball bat rolled after Robert down the stairs with a loud racket. Robert threw his arms around the muscled man.

“Oomf!” Eames said when Robert collided with him. He could not lift his arms to return the hug. “Ah, careful, darling!”

“What?” Robert asked, alarmed. He stepped back to examine Eames. “You’re hurt! What happened?”

“Didn’t run fast enough.”

“Let me see,” Robert tugged up the shirt, resisting Eames’ attempts to bat him away and he gasped when he saw the field of blue, black, and green bruises with a smattering of scrapes and scratches as if he had been dragged across pavement.

Robert sucked in a breath but said nothing like what went screaming through his head. _No, no, no_ , _you can’t risk yourself again. Not ever again_ , _you’re mine_. But, naturally, he said none of it. People did not actually speak such things unless they were scripted. Robert would not even know where to begin in saying anything as true as that.

It was always best to keep a strong facade and act like there was nothing to be said. That was what men did, after all. Right?

As Robert looked in dejected horror at the purpling skin, he could feel Eames’ gaze on him, steady, waiting for something. The silence suddenly felt to Robert like he was failing to do something, like he should be saying something about the happy relief he felt under the horror, the relief that at least Eames was still breathing.

Robert cleared his throat, “Jesus, you need to… um…” he lost his train of thought when he realized how lame it would be to see a lover so beat up and only say, _Jesus, you need to lay down._ He did not know how to recover the statement so let it die, which was worse.

Eames watched him. Robert drew a deep breath and met Eames’ eye like he was a client or a competitor, the kinds of people Robert knew how to handle. “Be more careful.”

With a sigh that sounded a little disappointed but mostly amused, Eames pulled his shirt down, “I expected an I Told You So.”

Robert realized only then that he had the rights to dish one out, but since it was already out there, he did not say it again. Instead, he asked as calmly as he could, “What went wrong?”

Eames waved a hand, dismissing it and declared he needed a bath. Robert bit back a snappy, harsh retort and what he did say came out a little bitter for it, “So is it over, the job? Or are you going back once you’re patched up?”

Having already made it half way up the stairs, Eames did not stop or even look back as he said, “No. You get me back early, gorgeous. Lucky you.” And then he disappeared into the bedroom.

Alone in his living room, in his boxers, in the middle of the night, Robert paced. He heard Eames running the bath, groaning as he got into it. Robert just paced, hand occasionally scrubbing at his mouth.

He was having something like a crisis. As happy as he was that Eames had come home early, the circumstances were nightmarish and the breaking point. He did not think he could continue investing in someone who might get himself killed. Either Eames stopped pulling cons, or he stopped coming home to Robert.

But the idea of laying down that ultimatum made Robert feel sick. What if Eames chose the work over him? He couldn’t even be mad at Eames if he did. After all, if the roles were reversed, or if Eames wanted Robert to retire from business tomorrow, then Robert would certainly say goodbye before he gave up proving himself.

Robert sighed miserably, scrubbing hard at his face as if this was just another nightmare he needed to wake up from.

“Rob!” Eames called from the bathroom.

His stomach dropped, and he did not want to answer the call. He needed more time to think.

“Robby!”

When he peeked in the open bathroom door, Eames waved him in, not smiling. Robert went in with something like the dread of a child about to face punishment over what he had been hoping everyone would ignore. The fluffy bathmat made sitting on his boney knees easier as Robert kneeled beside the tub where Eames relaxed in clear, steaming water up to his chin. The bruising looked worse through the shifting lights of the water.

Eames dripped water on Robert as he reached out to grip his hand with an over-warm and wet paw, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” was Robert’s instinctual reply and he knew immediately that Eames did not buy it.

“Why did you go quiet all of a sudden down there?” Eames asked softly.

Robert did not even try to answer.

Eames’ wet thumb glided over the back of Robert’s hand, “You have to tell me, love; I’m not _actually_ a mind reader.”

Angry, Robert lifted his icy eyes to Eames’, let his voice be icy, too, “Why do you think?”

Eames swallowed, looked away with his lashes fluttering, “Well, I think it scares you that I got hurt. Really, _really_ scares you.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” It was easy to admit to vulnerability if he did it cruelly. Thankfully, Eames seemed to already understand this about him. The big man splashed water overboard as he sat up suddenly and pulled Robert closer to wrap wet arms around Robert’s dry shoulders.

“You were right, Robert,” he whispered sounding breathless like Robert had said something sweet and tender. Like he had heard Robert’s heart under the sarcasm. “I should have stayed here. That’s all I kept thinking when it was all falling apart.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?” Robert pulled away, easy to slid out of wet arms. Eames huffed like he’d been kicked in the gut and Robert continued, “Think if you had died I would have any solace that your last thoughts were, _oh shit, Robby was right, shoulda stayed, but it’s too late now_? Think I would have any CLUE in the first place that you even REMEMBERED ME as you DIED!” He was yelling. Robert was shouting, so angry salt stung his eyes.

“Hey!” Eames was wounded and letting it show, “Never gonna forget you, alright?”

“Stop it,” Robert said, so suddenly without his own consent that he swallowed and clamped his mouth shut, nearly swallowing the last syllable.

“Stop what?” Eames asked, bewildered and even more pained, trapped in the bath.

Robert considered bailing, pretending he was talking about something else and not giving a direct order that he himself would not tolerate from a lover. But he could not, because just like the first two, the rest of the words left him without proper clearance. “Don’t leave again,” Robert was surprised that he managed to keep his voice this steady, this strong, “No more cons.”

Eames starred, mouth agape, eyes searching his face as his mind visibly whirred with the new request. The impossible request.

Robert made fists so his fingers would not start to shake. He kept his chin up, his eyes hard on Eames’. Maybe they weren’t so similar that this would be Eames’ deal breaker. Robert hoped to God they weren’t that similar because the ultimatum was out there now, no taking it back with any dignity.

Finally, Eames broke the silence, super soft, not an ounce of anything but care, “Do you need me to give it all up? Stay safe? Stay alive for you?”

Robert swallowed and then—feeling the need to throw Eames a bone—he nodded very small jerks of his head. Because yeah, he needed this and maybe ( _maybe_ ) in the absolute slimmest chance that Eames would ever ask Robert to do the same, he maybe could make the same kind of sacrifice-- _if_ the man _really_ needed it.

Eames leaned back into the steaming water, sank up to his ears, hairy knees knocking together. Robert waited with bated breath. The naked man covered his face momentarily, and then he nodded. Robert felt sparks up his spine. Eames dropped his hands back against the tub, absently covering his own nipples, and looked at him. “Okay, Robby. I think I can do that.”


	4. The Challenge

Peter Browning pursed his lips around a smile and looked Robert up and down, “Well, there’s no denying that you do look healthier now that you’ve completely destroyed your father’s— _and my_ —lives’ work.”

Robert grinned, “That’s because I’m _happier_ , Uncle Peter.”

“Glad to hear it,” the old man said and Robert honestly did not know if he meant it or if it was just a pleasantry, the kind of thing Peter had to say to the man who once broke his nose and then left him with no choice but to work for him.

“Fischer-Morrow was a masterpiece, but it wasn’t mine.” Robert said, “I’m making my own.”

Peter nodded, had heard it all before, poured two glasses of brandy and held one out to his godson. “I expected you to show up with your usual bodyguard.”

“ _Boyfriend_ ,” Robert smirked, “there’s a difference.”

“Didn’t seem like it, the way he has been stuck by your side,” Peter replied coolly. It was true. Eames had shadowed him for several days after his sudden retirement from the life of crime, but only because Robert had enjoyed having him near and the crook had had nothing better to do.

“I know you don’t like him, but he’s not yours he’s mine.”

“No, no, no,” Peter waved a hand, “I like him!” he laughed, “What’s there not to like? He’s amiable, intelligent, charismatic as hell, but I just don’t think it’s normal that a man that age hasn’t settled into a profession yet.”

“I think you’ve mentioned his age before,” Robert said with a roll of his eyes. He recognized a Segway when he heard one.

“He’s nearly forty, Robert,” Peter said gruffly.

“So?”

“You’re twenty eight.”

Robert knew where this was going and sighed loudly as Peter continued, “I’m just saying you can’t settle for someone just because he’s good at telling you what you want to hear. You deserve better, someone closer to your age, someone who—“

“I’m not settling,” Robert reassured.

“Yes you are.” Peter countered instantly. “You’re better than him.”

“No, I’m—“

“He’s using you for your money, Robert!”

Silence fell in Browning’s office and Robert mashed his teeth for a second before saying icily, “We’re here to work, Mr. Browning, not to make judgments on things we don’t understand—“

“Don’t _Mr. Browning_ me, Robby,” Uncle Peter snapped, turning purple in the face, “I’ve been more of a father to you than you’ll ever know, and I’m trying to _help_ you!”

It took every bit of control Robert had not to hit his godfather again, like he had done a while ago in the dispute over what to do with the empire. He spoke as calmly as he could, “He’s _not_ after my money.”

The silence that stretched out was heavy. The implication infuriated Robert. Eames was a conman, _sure_ , but he would never do a con like this. A year ago, when all the people around Robert were arguing with him over his decision to break up the empire, declaring that he had gone crazy with grief, Eames had been the only one who had never doubted his sanity, who had supported his decision.

If the man was after money, he could have gotten a lot more by helping everyone else talk Robert out of destroying his inheritance.

Peter looked down with a weary sigh, then, reluctantly, he went to his desk and opened a top drawer, pulled out a piece of paper and held it out. “I had Madeline print out your bank statements.”

“What?” Robert asked. Peter put the paper in his hand, and Robert recognized bank transaction records. He saw nothing he did not already know. The new debit card had a long list of regular transactions, most of them ATM withdraws for wads of cash that Robert knew made its way directly to the race track. Robert quickly thought of a list of excuses so as to avoid any lecture on gambling, just in case Peter somehow knew about that too.

“You’ve been giving him an allowance,” Peter said.

Robert shrugged. It was the only way to keep him here, so that he would not gallivant off and get himself killed doing something for money. And it wasn’t like Eames had access to ALL of Robert’s savings, and he was usually pretty good at breaking even on the gambles most of the time. It was a harmless little hobby. Big deal.

Peter gripped his shoulder, “It’s hard to hear, trust me, I know. I was in the same place with my first wife. I loved her _more than anything_ but all she cared about was the shopping opportunities.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Robert said and he was surprised by how much he meant it, how much he understood it. He met his godfather’s eye and said as resolutely as he could, “But that isn’t what’s happening here. Just trust me, for once, will you?”

Peter looked pained, “I just don’t want you to get hurt. After the way you handled Maurice’s death, I not sure you’d hold up well if you let some gambler break your heart.”

“I’ll hold up well enough,” Robert replied, stung by the reference to the minor breakdown he had suffered shortly after Maurice’s funeral. He crumpled the statement, annoyed that Peter knew about the gambling, and drank deeply from his brandy as he headed pointedly toward the desk. “Now can we get to work, please?”

………………..

The light of the early morning sun and the beep of the alarm clock filled the bedroom. Robert woke first, had to half-climb over Eames to reach the damned thing to shut it off. As he did so, Eames groaned and swore and pulled pillows over his head. Robert chuckled, thumped him on the back, “you can sleep all day, just come have breakfast with me before I leave.”

Eames groaned and resisted, holding the pillows tighter down over his head, murmuring in a muffled slur. “Sleep, peep’lar’posed’ta sleep.”

Sighing in fake frustration, Robert kissed Eames between the shoulder blades, and let his teeth drag over his skin as he did, murmured against him, “How’d I get so attached to a good-for-nothing scalawag like you?”

There was no answer, just the steady breaths of a man already back sound asleep. Robert left the bed, and had a shower. He had his tooth brush pasted up and at work on the smile that had cost a handsome penny, when looming in the open bathroom door was a rumpled rogue in Robert’s robe.

Eames’ hair was in several directions, his face pale and eyes blurry. He blinked heavily and smiled through a thick yawn, “You said something about breakfast, gorgeous?”

…………….

There were few sights more delightful than seeing Eames laughing from his gut. His mouth was open, showing teeth and tongue, creases in his unshaven cheeks booked-ended his stretched-to-the-max lips. The sound of him filled up the apartment. He threw his torso around, dunking forward, reeling back. The laughing did more to wake them up than the coffee.

Robert’s cackling lover was still seated and his full lips still had cinnamon on them when he hooked a thick hand on the back of Robert’s neck and pulled him down for a hungry, but smiling, kiss. Laughter was the fastest working aphrodisiac for Eames. He stood so that Robert could straighten and their lips need not part too much.

“What will you do today?” Robert asked as a lead up to invite Eames to come to the office for lunch. Eames trapped Robert in his arms, murmuring, “I’m going back to bed, and you’re coming with me.”

“I have to get to the office,” Robert said, keeping scruffy lips off his freshly shaven skin.

“Oh, come on, love,” Eames breathed, “To hell with work in an office. It’s so bloody boring. We’ll go away—I’ll teach you all the short cuts in life. We’ll get all the benefits of success and none of the work. We’ll have time to do whatever we want, and we’ll have the money to do it on.”

“I know business isn’t your thing, but I love it,” Robert said, “I’m good at it. I have something to prove so I’m going to.” He pecked Eames on the lips, jumped his eyebrow, “And I’ll do it _without_ cheating.”

Eames put on a pout, “I’m not a cheat.”

“You’re a crook.”

“I make my own rules,” Eames revised with playfully narrowed eyes.

Robert wanted to kiss him, but knew better. One kiss would lead to more and then to things he did not have time for. He headed for the front door, “Put it in your rules to meet me and Peter for lunch today.”

“Is that a direct order?”

“Yes,” Robert answered, grabbing his keys and throwing open the front door. Eames had headed for the stairs, but he stopped and turned back,

“It’s not in my rules to be your bitch.”

Robert put on a lecherous smile, “Yes it is.”

“Are you sure you can’t be a little late?” Eames asked, leaving the base of the stairs for the front door. “You _own_ the company!”

But Robert stepped out into the hall and pulled the door mostly closed before Eames reached him. With Robert’s head still in the apartment, Eames was able to take his face in both hands and put their foreheads together, but Robert would not let Eames kiss him. “I’m going to work. You’re going back to bed to dream sweet dreams about me.”

**… … … …**

“Should we start without him?” Peter asked. Robert swallowed a sigh that would have sounded quite lost as he looked toward the entrance. When still he saw no shape of Eames heading toward them at an apologetically brisk pace, he nodded. “Yes.”

Picking up the menu, he pointedly looked through his choices to avoid Peter’s gaze. The silence at their table betrayed Robert’s pretense, laid bare the truth that Robert was having to recover from being stood up.

“He’s flakey, Robert.”

“He’s busy.”

“Doing what?”

Robert did not answer, thinking of race tracks, dice, and cards and feeling a hot twist of anger in his gut. Robert was sure that Eames was gambling, and Peter knew it too. He could tell by the sideways slant of the man’s mouth that he disapproved of such reckless behavior. He used to make the same face when Mom poured herself another glass of wine.

Robert pulled out his phone and shot off a text. _Where are you_?

The next thirty seconds passed with no reply and Robert could hear Eames’ excuses later, _I was on a heater, love._ _I couldn’t stop to TEXT!_ For the first time, Robert began to wonder why the man lived and breathed for those brief winning streaks. There was more to life than having Lady Luck smile at you for five minutes. Pocketing the phone, Robert picked up his menu with a curt, “Let’s eat.”

“The man is doing nothing for a living except—well, _you_ , frankly. What could he possibly be busy doing without you?”

Peter wanted him to say it, that Eames was blowing hard earned cash on a roll of dice. Robert fixed his godfather with a look that was cold with control, “You don’t know him.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t either.”

“Drop it, Peter,” Robert warned lowly, “I know him. I know _exactly_ where he is, okay?”

“Do you? Then where—“

“That’s _our_ business!”

“Christ, Robert—“

“You know what? He’d avoiding _you_ ,” Robert lied acidly, somewhat frantically. Peter blinked,

“Me? Why? I’m nothing but friendly to him!”

“And you think I don’t tell him about how you are behind his back?”

Peter snorted, “I know you don’t, Robert. Talking about big personal things isn’t one of your strengths.”

“Okay,” Robert said, holding up a hand to stop him right there, where things were getting close enough to said personal things. Discussion closed, moving on.

**… … … …**

Robert was showered and in bed and still without a single reply to any of his texts or voicemails. It was midnight. Where in the hell was Eames? Robert had come home to an empty house. But discarded dress socks of multiple colors in the floor and spare toiletries in the bathroom showed that the conman had not just up and left. This was enough of a relief for Robert to linger for a while on the sight of a crumpled silk shirt in the floor, but there was no note or voice message or e-mail or anything as to where Eames had gone.

Hot with anger, Robert turned out the lights and attempted to get comfortable in a bed that felt too big for just one person. A pillow smelled like body-wash that was not Robert’s, the smell of the body that was not there, but that should be. Outraged, Robert threw the pillow into the floor and made sure to be on only his side of the bed.

Everything still smelled like Eames.

So what if Eames left behind some clothes, soap, and a toothbrush, he still could have left. The thought was not a welcome one, but there it was painfully sharp around the edges. With it was an urge to check his wallet for cards, to get online and take a peek at his bank statements. Eames could have taken everything and—

“No,” Robert said to the ceiling. It was horrible to even think it. He trusted Eames. None of this was a con. It could not be. _It was not_. With memories of fluttering lashes, lingering kisses, soft moans and true laughter, Robert was absolutely sure of it.

Another thing he was sure of: Eames was late because of whatever game he was sinking all of his allowance into. Robert knew little about the scene, but he imagined dark seedy pits where desperate fools hunched around a stained felt table playing for double or nothing under the eyes of a heartless gangster keeping close accounts of who owes what. The only other atmosphere Robert could conjure was the brightly lit, loud party of Las Vegas, where a sharp dressed man could have up to five beautiful women hanging all over him as he rolled the dice and beat the house again.

Robert did not like either picture.

With these mental images came the resolve to never give him another dime. Directly after that the resolve shattered because tightening purse strings really would make Eames leave to find it elsewhere.

_So you do believe he’s only here for the money._

No. No. No. The pressure in Robert’s chest did not allow that thought any room to breathe before it was smashed. _Damn you, Uncle Peter_. Robert seethed now and even flexed his fingers with the urge to strangle something. He was not going to let anyone make him doubt himself.

Not again.

The bedroom door opened just then, revealing the silhouette of a wide-shouldered man sneaking in with his head down. The light did not come on. Robert did not move. He was simultaneously thankful that Eames was home and outraged that he was sneaking in with no intentions of explaining himself.

Robert stayed quiet as Eames entered the room, and he caught glimpses of Eames’ outline when he moved in front of the dimly-lit windows as he undressed. The mattress sagged as he sat down gently.

Robert turned on the bedside lamp at the exact same time that he spoke without whispering, “Was it worth it?”

In the sudden glare from the lamp, Eames gave a violent start and leapt to his feet. He sagged in relief almost instantly, an amused grin softening his surprised features. “So sorry, Rob, I thought you were asleep. I was trying not to wake you.”

“You were gambling, weren’t you?”

Eames smiled. “I won!” he slid under the sheets and across the mattress, close enough for Robert to get a full whiff of the scent the pillows only echoed. He made no move toward Eames, and all that ended up touching was Eames’ knee on Robert’s thigh and his breath on his shoulder as the gambler named the amount he had gone in with and what he had walked away with. It was impressive, but that was not the point.

“You said you’d have dinner with me.”

For the first time since the light came on, Eames’ smile faltered and he looked guilty. “Shit,” he said, “I completely forgot.” He lowered his head and bumped his nose on Robert’s shoulder, like a horse begging treats from his owner, the very same man he had thrown from his back a moment ago. “I’ll make it up to you right now—it’ll be a celebration for the end of my losing streak!”

Robert moved away, shaking his head, “You’re not getting off the hook that easily.”

Eames scoffed in disbelief, “I forgot lunch, Rob, not an anniversary or something.”

“Peter was there,” Robert snapped, turning to put his feet on the floor with his back to Eames, space between them, “we waited for you.”

“Well if Peter was there then you weren’t left alone. What’s the matter?”

“He already didn’t trust you and then you stood me up in front of him!” Robert cried. “You have no idea how much I have to defend you when you aren’t around. Just for once, Eames, I’d like you to prove yourself without me having to ask him to take my word about you!”

There were a few beats of silence and then Eames slid over the space between them, wrapped his arms around Robert’s torso, trapping him so he could not move away this time. His beard was tickly and familiar on Robert’s neck as Eames pressed his mouth against him. His lips were not puckered; this was not a kiss. This was Eames nuzzling Robert, seeking nothing but sheer closeness.

Inadvertent kisses were born in breath and soft words spoken against Robert’s flesh, “I can’t believe I let you down. Forgive me, please.”

He shifted, adjusting until he had gotten his legs around Robert and was able to pull him completely up against him. Robert did not struggle, too relieved through it all that Eames was there to hold him.

“Please, I’m so sorry. I’ll prove myself to him. I will.” Eames continued in a new string of speak-kisses, he added a few real kisses for punctuation. “Don’t be angry, my love.” His lips trailed seductively up Robert’s neck to his ear as his hands slid over Robert’s body, teasing nipples.

Failing to hold up against the assault any longer, Robert puffed out the last of his breath and surrendered to the attentions delivered to him. He confessed breathlessly, “I thought maybe you left me.”

Eames’s lips left his skin with a smack and his voice was firm, “Never.”

“Really?” Robert hated it, how weak, pathetic, he was for needing the reassurance. If Eames thought this of him, though, he showed no indication, urging Robert to turn and face him as he lay back against the pillows. His eye met Robert’s with brightly-shining promise. His rough thumb traced the sharp contours of his face. “You’re the best home I’ve ever had.”

A rush welled up inside Robert, words so desperate to be said that he hurt; he _hurt_ inside, like he was dying. A sound escaped him, one as hopeless as he felt. He slipped a knee between the other man’s thighs.

 _Jesus Fuck, I love you._ Those unsaid words were what pushed the sound out, made Robert’s blood rush, his hands tremble. But he had never said it before. Ever. And as true as it was now, he still could not say it. He was scared, incapable of opening up that much, of allowing that much potential pain.

Eames did not need to hear it, though. He said these things never expecting to hear them back--typical, _beautiful_ , Eames. Robert’s head swam and the rush inside was too much; he would puke if he did not say something.

“Eames,” he croaked. But he could manage nothing more.

Beneath him, Eames lost his breath and Robert knew he had heard it all in that one syllable, of course he did. Eames _knew_ Robert. He knew him better than anyone ever.

Robert felt Eames’s cock grow firm beneath him as the muscled man sat up, a strong hand catching the back of Robert’s neck. Their foreheads pressed together, Eames’ skin radiated heat, his grip on him was hard, and his other hand fisted the sheets until his knuckles were white. “I need you,” he breathed hotly and it sounded like a plea. Robert had never heard him beg before. “Oh, God, let me have you, _please_.”

All Robert could do was nod. A moment later, Eames rolled and Robert was on his back with Eames over him. Green eyes drank him up; calloused fingertips lightly traced defined cheek bones, drawing a light thin line down his body, all the way down between his thighs. Robert trembled and bit his lip, brushed his knuckles over soft beard as a dry finger dragged slowly around his pucker of skin.

“I didn’t know,” Robert said thickly, low in his throat. How could he be so selfish all this time? Did he not ask enough out of Eames to give up a lifestyle he loved, to put up with Robert’s constant working and to give and give and _give_ without offering anything in return? “I’m sorry I never asked--” Robert panted.

“No,” Eames panted back. “I just wanted you. I wanted you in any way I could get you, but now I, I need to _show_ you—“

Robert nodded, lifting to claim the lips that spoke before they said too much.

Since finding this wonder of a man, who was strong but usually submissive, Robert had suddenly become the dominate partner for the first time in his life. So when Eames slicked his thick fingers, it was new _and_ old: a new Eames who took control and the old Robert who gave in.

What a _thrill_ to be under this man, to meet this new side of him, to let him inside in this new way; not just infiltrated by words and looks and moans but by Eames himself; slow and tender but hot and urgent.

His cock was thick and burning and Robert’s entire body flashed hot and hotter. He kissed Eames and pushed against him, to let the glorious cock in deeper, prompted Eames to let go, to just take him the way he needed to right now, because he could sense that Eames was holding back. Robert sank deep into the pillows and bit his lip, his hands pulling Eames’ hips harder against his body until a moan lept out of him, a thin wobbly sound far removed from the aggressive noises that had been pulled out of Robert so far by this man. It made Eames pause, put his hand to Robert’s face, worried.

Robert shook his head and moaned again, whispered roughly, “No, it’s good, so _so_ good. More—ohga— _More_!”

Eames’ mouth consumed Robert’s and slow and steady became more fervent. They moved together, surrendering to the rush, thrusting until a strangled cry broke out of Eames and he came in a hot burst that filled Robert. Then he dropped a rainfall of kisses from Robert’s eyes to his bellybutton and lower, to that which until now had been neglected and was screaming for attention. Robert’s panting breaths halted and stuttered as Eames’ lips encased him.

“Oh God,” Robert shivered, fisting the pillows. “ _Eames_!”

He was on the brink. Eames hollowed his lips, moving on him, mouth hot and wet and _perfect_. Robert lost his breath, his fingers combed into Eames’ hair; he just wanted to hold him, hold onto _something_ \--Eames reached up and their fumbling fingers knotted together in the sheets at Robert’s hips, and Robert was so primed that he quickly joined his partner in post-coital bliss.

Licking his swollen red, smiling lips, Eames climbed back over Robert, and his mouth had Robert’s musky taste when they came together again. Holding onto each other, kiss after kiss after kiss finally broke into a string of kisses down Robert’s jaw to his neck, where Eames nuzzled him, still panting.

“We should have done this earlier,” Robert rasped. He felt Eames’ smile on his skin as he chuckled, nodded. Robert threaded his fingers through his lover’s hair, breathing in a musky breath as deep as he could and releasing it contentedly. His ass felt divinely wrecked and he couldn’t believe how much he had missed the feeling, “Why do I ever leave you?”

“You have work that’s important to you,” Eames reminded him softly.

“Not as much as you are,” Robert breathed. It was the closest he had ever come to saying it and he continued in a shuddering breath, “I want _you_ more than any job, Eames.”

He wanted Eames to ask him to quit for him. He wanted to be given the chance to prove these words. Work was not as important as _this_.

Eames lifted his head, put their foreheads together, eyes closed, voice as soft as ever, “You have me.”

“I…” Robert started and when Eames opened his eyes, he tried again in a breath, “I…” but Eames hushed him with fingers to his lips. His eyes were sparkling.

“I know, my love. I know.”

It burst out of Robert as nothing but hot breath, the words a strangled unintelligible choke, and he hid his welling eyes in Eames’ cheek. Eames rolled, holding Robert to him, “I know, I know, I know. How could I not? You show it everyday.”

Robert sniffed. “Not as well as you,” he said, stroking the soft side of Eames’ face. “Goddammit you just keep getting better.”

Eames grinned wolfishly and turned his face to catch Robert’s fingers lightly between his teeth playfully, snorting in laughter. “I’m just about out of secrets.”

Blues eyes flashed and soft lips parted. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Eames breathed deeply, held it and released slowly, bumped noses with him. “Then you’ll want me gone.”

“Never.”

Eames smiled and closed his eyes as if to savor it. Robert tried again to say the words—Christ why was it so hard? It was not a secret, it was three little words, but they stopped in his throat without a sound. He swallowed and pulled Eames down to rest.

“I’m sorry for getting mad at you.”

“I deserved it.”

“Maybe,” Robert joked. “But I over reacted. You just...” _scared me_. He did not have to finish it out loud. Eames knew.

Eames smiled, “Does it help to know that you scare the fuck out of me regularly?”

“How so?”

“Any day now you could find someone better for you and run off with him.”

“Stop it, not going to happen.”

Eames drew in a deep breath and released it, “Okay.” With a nod, he said, “Okay. I’m going to believe that.” His eyes fluttered closed and he held Robert tighter. Robert did not know how else to reassure him than returning the squeeze.


	5. A Big Change

Robert barely heard the alarm. He felt Eames reach over him to shut it off, heard his yelping yawn, felt the bed move as he got out of it, but Robert fell asleep before Eames returned from the bathroom. He had only meant to rest his heavy eyes for a minute longer, but the next thing he knew Eames was gently shaking him, rubbing his back, and crooning his name. “Robby, gorgeous, you have to wake up now or you’ll be late.”

Sleep broke like a spell and Robert rolled onto an elbow. He was a half hour behind his usual morning routine, but the sight of Eames up-and-at-‘em before noon was surprising enough to override any haste to get back on schedule. He sank comfortably into the pillows with a smile. “This is nice.”

Eames grinned. “About last ni—“

Robert stopped him, shook his head. He did not want to talk about this stuff now, in the light of a new day. After a comfortable beat, Eames straightened and patted Robert’s bottom. “Well, I’ve made breakfast. You’ll have time to eat.”

“Did you even clean?” Robert asked, blinking at the cleared floors as he crossed them. The maid only came on weekends. Eames gently pushed him toward the shower. “Eggs are getting cold.”

Robert laughed, “Such a wonderful homemaker.”

Eames grinned wickedly. “Well, I should earn my allowance like a good boy, so Peter will have nothing on me. And you’re _not_ going to skip the most important meal of the day, so wash,” he ordered on his way out of the room.

Another way to avoid ill judgments from Peter would be to get a real job, but Robert did not say as much. The man would never be a nine-to-fiver, and if he did Robert’s heart would break a little. He did not want Eames to change _too_ much.

After the shower and a quick shave, Robert came downstairs to breakfast on the table complete with daily vitamins waiting to be swallowed with juice. Robert did not have time to do anything but cram the food down his throat.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Robert said, swallowing the last of it. Eames took the dishes away while Robert tied his tie.

“I want to. We’re going to take care of each other, love, and your uncle needs to see that.”

Robert felt his cheeks warm up and was glad Eames was in the other room. His words from last night about home came back to Robert then. _The best home I’ve ever had._  The entire morning so far had been filled with the sweet comfort of remembering the love they had made after that. Robert had never spent a night quite like that before now, with anyone.

“So it’s like a job to you,” Robert said with a teasing grin. He could not let things stay so serious on the surface for long. “Are you really so bored that you need to play a role like this?”

Eames turned off the running tap water with a snort. “It isn’t a role. I’m just trying to apologize for my behavior recently. But…I don’t know, I do miss pulling cons, I suppose. Parts of it, anyway.”

The confession sent a jolt that churned Robert’s breakfast dangerously. He swallowed and moved into the kitchen. Eames continued to work with his back to him, oblivious to the repercussions of his little admission. Robert wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, kissed his neck, tried to put it in his touch how much he cared.

Eames purred in pleasant surprise and leaned into him.  Robert answered his unspoken question with eyes closed. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad last night. It was just one dinner, and I’m glad that your losing streak is over.”

Eames chuckled and a sigh of relief shuddered out of him. “Oh, we both are, my dear.”

Robert grinned and kissed his neck again.

“So I’m forgiven then?”

“Yes,” Robert said, finding it to be true—it was the first time in his life he was not holding a grudge, and for no conscious choice. It was just impossible to stay mad at this man. Robert sighed. “I can probably forgive you anything.”

All the breath knocked out of Eames, and he turned to look Robert in the eye. The wide-open, vulnerable expression on the conman’s face sent chills up the CEOs arms it was so unexpected. For some strange reason, it pulled a slightly giddy laugh out of Robert, and he kissed Eames’ lips in parting.

“I’ve really got to run. I’ll see you tonight.”

……………………..

“You told him what I said,” Uncle Peter accused the next weekend. A dinner party was drawing to a close—a party cooked and hosted by Eames, who had announced during the evening’s conversation that he might start taking some on-line classes. And all of this coming after another bank statement showed only regular refills at a gas station and a smattering of health food stores. That disapproving slant in Uncle Peter’s expression shifted into a crooked smile, and Robert had given Eames’ leg a pinch—no need to over sell it. Showing up for the appointment had been enough, cooking had been the cherry on top. The get-my-ducks-in-a-row thing had been poorly disguised ridicule.

“Of course I did,” Robert told his godfather at the door. “We tell each other everything.”

Uncle Peter visibly bit back a retort and pasted a happy smile across his face. Robert sighed, dropping his head back. “What?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

Robert lifted an eyebrow. “Listen, this is just a game of house to him. He’s doing it as a dig at you, just to prove he can. When he’s done, things are going right back to the way they were, because that’s who we are.”

Peter shook his head. “Now see, that’s the problem, Robert. You want the wrong things.”

His godfather left still shaking his head. The young man stared at the door for a long minute and then huffed, rubbed his face. Jesus, was there no pleasing his elders?

Rubbing the tension out of his neck, he dragged his feet into the dining room in search of Eames to tell him off for the on-line course jab. To his surprise, the body he knew instinctively by now, moved quickly away from the door as it opened, and Robert paused to look at his boyfriend, who was casually pretending to have not moved from his chair.

“Where you just listening?”

“I overheard a bit,” Eames admitted.

“Why did you hide? You should have come out and stood up for yourself.”

“I thought perhaps I should let Peter leave first, since you’re so touchy about my image in front of him.”

Robert’s eyebrows bunched. “What?”

Eames sighed. “This isn’t a game to me Robert. I’m not just doing all this to spite him.”

“But—“

“Oh, my love, you really don’t get it,” he said, standing.

“Then explain it to me,” Robert laughed uneasily and put his arms around him. “Why are you being like this?”

Eames was quiet for three or four steady breaths which Robert just listened to like the sound of a seashell on his ear; soothing. Eames rubbed his back and shrugged. “It’s how I was taught to show affection, growing up, I suppose. When you love someone, you plant yourself in their life so that you can breathe them in and give them air in return.”

“Photosynthetic love?” Robert summarized.

“’Xactly,” Eames said with a grin, rocking Robert’s entire body in retribution for the teasing interruption. Then his strong chest expanded with the kind of deep pull that stills a raging pain from within. “My parents took care of each other until the day my dad died, and the way my mum just... _fell_ _apart_ without him....I mean she couldn’t even do the blooming laundry correctly,” he chortled dryly, softly. Tickling lips grazed Robert’s neck and another breath packed it all back inside. Eames swallowed audibly, releasing him. His grey-green eyes were brimming with emotion. “I just mean for us to have that. It’s what true love means to me.”

Robert’s knees were weak, and he touched the roguish face he knew but still didn’t know entirely, not if vulnerable expressions like this were still brand new and breathtaking. Then it occurred to Robert exactly what he was seeing. It was the birth of a new man, the layers beneath the lawless swindler, access to a heart he’d grown from a swiveled seed.

“God,” Robert breathed, pulling him close. “Is this what you’re really like underneath everything? So…. _perfect_?”

“I’m just trying to be. For you,” he said against the tender skin of his neck.

Robert grabbed the back of his head, pulled, held their faces pressed together, nose to nose, eyebrows aligned. He felt Eames eyelashes brush his cheek. The words bulged out of his throat, heavy and urgent, “Tell me what I can do. What do I have to do for you to show how much I—“ Robert’s voice failed him. Whatever was running around in his chest had tried to escape in between the words, now it was all stuck behind his Adam’s apple. He shook.

Eames’ hands went from Robert’s waist to his face, and his lips crushed over Robert’s mouth. They both made a noise as if in pain, like the kiss had split their lips on their teeth, but it hadn’t. It was somehow the softest, hardest kiss they’d ever had. Robert’s pain came from his chest, or that general area; from the deep dark place nothing had ever touched before, just above his stomach and below his ribs.

His guts.

Eames had managed to invade Robert’s innards, was filling him absolutely up with love and hope and their entire future together—he saw himself growing old with this man; he saw children. Never once in his life had Robert believed he’d have children (for obvious biological reasons as well as emotional) but there it was. He wanted to adopt some one day, with Eames.

They went upstairs and the words Robert still couldn’t say were transferred out of his closed throat, through his body into Eames, all over Eames in touch and kiss and breath.

...  …  …

It seemed the closer to heaven Robert managed to get in the day, the further into hell his restless mind wanted to take him in his dreams. The old nightmares returned that night, every single one of them.

 _Gunfire and mayhem echoed beyond thick walls;_ this was a room Robert’s dreams had not ventured into since he first kissed Eames. _Before him was a locked vault, he knew the combination and no one else did. He’d nearly not remembered it himself. It was a very important combination._

_An angry woman was locked inside this room, between the war and the vault. She shot Robert in the heart and left him to bleed to death. The pain was so intense that Robert wished he would die already._

_Then he did. And because he hadn’t given anyone that combination, he didn’t go anywhere. He just ceased to exist._

The old dream was supposed to end there, but tonight, it was interrupted by another.

_He was on a skyscraper, but it was different than the original dream. This time he felt like he knew exactly where he was. He was in that place he’d felt Eames penetrate with his talk of their life together. He was inside himself where he’d been alone his entire life._

_But there were others there. Three others: an angry woman, a desperate man, and a scared girl. None of them were supposed to be there, they had to get out. That was what the hurricane was. It was ripping the house to shreds, trying to get at them, to take them away. To clean his soul._

_The desperate man was cut free by a big knife severing his hold on this place; he’d be gone in minutes, picked up by the gale. Then a gunshot rang through the air and the angry woman vanished. Then the frightened girl promised Robert everything would be alright and then kicked him off the edge of the building, followed him down....back into the nothingness, where he had died alone._

_But then heavy hands on his chest shocked him back to life, and he was on a patio outside his hospital room and he was kissing Eames under the stars and he was not the only one that knew the combination now._

_Everything was okay now. He had a place to go._

Robert rolled over, lifting out of the dream like out of a tub of water, but he didn’t wake. His mind, ever the puzzle solver, clicked the until-now-evasive analysis into alignment. The desperate man was Robert’s attempt to be Maurice. The angry woman was mom trying to stop him. The frightened girl... that must have been Robert too; interesting.

Robert moaned, waking Eames, who turned and nuzzled him tenderly as they drifted off again. Robert smiled and moaned again, happily.

Eames was the hurricane.....

Robert fell through sweet dreams of Eames until he was back in one of his nightmares. _An avalanche chased him with malicious ferocity—it was made for him, to smother_ him _, no one else. But he couldn’t be smothered; he had a job to do! He was looking for something important. The snow was cold and in his clothes, and he wished he was somewhere else, but he had to be_ here _. Because the others were here..._

Before, Robert had never known who was in the avalanche with him. This time he sensed he knew them. Eames was there... he knew that now. So maybe the rest were the children they would someday adopt, and the snow they were running from...that was Robert’s past?

_Dad’s eyes were filled with disappointment in his last moment in life. Robert had failed to make the man proud even once. How embarrassing. Thank God Mom hadn’t been there to see it end that way. She’d have been angry at the war between father and son; a war to be two heartless men instead of a single decent one._

Robert’s dream broke like a sweat on his forehead. When his eyes adjusted he found that he was in bed, facing the bathroom, the pale light of dusk reflected dimly on the brass door knob and the mirror beyond. Eames’ arm was still around him, his nose in the soft hairs at the back of his neck.

Very carefully, Robert extracted himself from the bed and quietly went to work at his desk.


	6. The Truth

“Are you coming home soon, gorgeous? It’s after six,” Eames’ voice said in the speaker-phone.

Damn, Robert had meant to be the first to call. It was something that had become established between them over the last month of their extended intimacy; they weren’t allowed to go twelve hours without hearing from each other. Eames called the office nearly every day at this time, unless Robert came home at a reasonable hour or was at least on the ball about it and got his phone call in first.

It had been a point of worry for Robert, afraid Eames would take it personally at being forgotten, but Eames had assured him that a missed call here or there, in light of a busy day at the office, wasn’t going to drive him away. At the memory of his boyfriend’s promise never to leave him on the grounds of never getting a call, Robert smiled, fingers still flying over the keyboard, drafting a letter.

“Sorry, baby,” he said, checking his watch. “Nearly done here, I’ll be home in an hour.”

“Hurry home, please. I’m starved for attention over here.”

Robert crooned with delight at the playful tease in his lover’s voice. “I will.”

When he pressed the end call button, he glanced bashfully at Uncle Peter, who stood with a file halfway to the pile on the corner of the desk. Both men’s cheeks colored, and the older man laughed. “Well, you two are the sickening picture of love these days.”

“Thanks,” Robert fairly gushed, typing faster. He wanted to go home. He glanced at his godfather, who looked slightly worried. Robert mashed his teeth. “I guess that bothers you.”

“It just feels...too good to be true. Just be careful. Okay?”

Robert refrained from rolling his eyes, but only because it was true. It felt so good it was scary sometimes. With his thoughts thusly derailed, he had to re-read his last sentence nearly ten times. He swore in frustration and highlighted it to better focus.

“Ah, damn it. Move,” Uncle Peter said.

“What?”

“I’ll do that. You go home to him.”

...  …  …

Robert was home twenty minutes later and entered the apartment as silently as he could, to see if he could maybe surprise the con-artist for once. He stepped out of his shoes and crept up the stairs with an uncontrollable smile on his face. It was time to show his boyfriend that he could be home early from time to time, that work wasn’t his favorite thing to do.

Eames was in the home office, at the computer desk with his chin in his hand. He still wore the sweats he’d slept in, and his hair was disheveled. He looked at the glowing monitor through a pair of thick rimmed glasses instead of his contacts. Robert lingered silently in the doorway, momentarily captured by the sight. Something about it was enthralling. It was concentration in Eames’ eyes, the serious set of his mouth.

Robert could have stood there all night and watched the man be so quiet and focused, but after only a minute, Eames clicked the mouse, swore, and ripped his eyes from the screen, accidentally seeing Robert. He jumped. Robert laughed and came into the room.

“What are you working on?” he asked, leaning on the front of the desk to see.

“Nothing, gorgeous,” Eames said as Robert looked at an on-line craps game. “I was just playing a game.”

Robert huffed as he realized that Eames had not been able to walk away from the call of Lady Luck forever. It was a real craps game—and Eames’ winning streak was apparently over. “Have you been doing this all day?”

“No,” Eames said, standing and stretching in a way that proved he’d not moved in too long. He laughed at himself. “I mean, most of the day. But I stopped for lunch and I did my chores.”

“And then you blew your allowance,” Robert said. The words came out sharper than he’d intended. Blinking, he realized he was angry about this. On-line gambling required credit cards, there was no telling how much money Eames had lost.

When Robert lifted his eyes to his boyfriend, it was to find him scratching the back of his rumpled hair. He licked his lips and shrugged shamefully. “I did, dammit. I lost a bit more than that actually.”

Robert’s shoulders sagged. Eames still wouldn’t look directly at him. “I’ll pay you back.”

A lot of things were moving around inside of Robert’s body. His stomach was flipping, sick at the thought of Eames blowing hard earned money on a game behind his back, at the thought of Eames going away to do dangerous things to get money to pay it back, at the thought of maybe losing Eames as quickly, suddenly, and silently as Eames had lost the cash; Eames dying on the other side of the world while Robert worked away at the office, oblivious to the problem.

Arms going weak at the elbows, he straightened so that he no longer leaned on the desk, and he sighed painfully. Eames looked at him then, embarrassed. “I will. I’ll pay you back for all of it. I’m not here for your money, no matter what Peter thinks.”

“This isn’t about Peter,” Robert said, waving his godfather aside. “You don’t have to pay me back either. It’s my fault.”

Confusion replaced the embarrassment. Eames scratched the corner of his eye, readjusted the glasses on his nose. “I’m not sure I follow you, gorgeous. _I_ lost the game, not you.”

“But I make you play it.”

Eames laughed it sounded so ridiculous to him. Robert’s lips parted and he shook his head. “No I do. I leave you here alone too much. What else are you going to do?”

“Well, there’s no arguing with you there.” Eames said with surprising force which was immediately recanted by a laugh and a shake of his head. “I didn’t mean that.”

Robert’s heart had nearly stopped beating. “Yes you did,” he said softly. He fell back to lean on the desk, crossed his arms. He saw everything now, his entire day-to-day life as it truly was, and he didn’t like it. Not a single bit. It was difficult to breathe with such a reduced heart rate. “You did, and you’re right. Jesus,” he pressed on his eyes. “I’m turning into _him_!”

“No,” the word was sharp, and Eames surged forward, shaking his head sternly. “Darling, don’t do this to yourself; you’re not your father, you’re so much better than him.”

“God,” Robert said. “How does this keep happening? When I try to be him I fail and when I try to be me I fail and become him, what is wrong with me?”

“That is not what’s happening here,” Eames said with a desperation that Robert had become familiar with. “You are not Maurice.”

Robert looked at Eames, this man who bent over backwards to please him and pacify him in anything that he wanted. Blue eyes stung. Robert pulled in a tight breath and shook his head. “My father worked day and night and ignored my mother until she drank herself to death.”

“Nothing like that is going to happen, I promise. _I understand_ that you have to work a lot. Bloody empires don’t build themselves!” In every word of that sentence had self-deprecation that hissed like fat in a frying pan.

Robert huffed and straightened from the desk once again. He took Eames’ arms by the biceps. “ _Why do you do that_?”

Eames blinked. “Do what?”

“I want you to stop giving me permission to ignore you! Goddammit, Eames, that’s the last thing I want to do, don’t you know that? But it happens, you know, I get to working and I forget everything, even you, and then you just _take it_!”

Eames’ firmly shaped chest expanded behind Robert’s borrowed college sweatshirt, but no words of defense came out with it. Robert took his face in both hands. “You just did it again, Eames, what is it? Look at me. I can see it in your eyes. It’s like you don’t think you have a right...”

“I don’t,” Eames said roughly. Both words were broken and collapsed uselessly back into his throat where he cleared them away and looked down. Robert lifted his face again, made their eyes stay locked. Robert kissed him.

He had a hold on Eames’ self-esteem and he wasn’t going to let it scurry back into the dark where it could wither and die behind a mask like his mother’s. So he kissed his boyfriend reverently, wished with every fiber of his being that one good kiss like this could just inflate Eames’ self-esteem like a balloon. And maybe it did, and maybe that was the problem. Robert, if left to himself, would work all night without remembering to kiss a man who needed him.

“You have to fight me, Eames,” Robert said. “Please. Fight me and keep me from doing this wrong. Please. Goddammit, I don’t want to mess this up.” His breath shuddered. “I love you too much.”

Robert found that saying it was the same thing as flying.

A warm tear met Robert’s palm where he held soft beard. Alarmed, he swept it away and returned his lips to the face he held. Eames’ arms wrapped around him and he kissed back in such a tender hopeful way that Robert was reminded of the first time he heard those three words from him, the other thing Eames had said that night about his past. He broke the kiss as it all made sense. This wasn’t low self-esteem, it was self-loathing.

“This is about what you’ve done in your past,” Robert said. He felt the entire body under his hands tense and green eyes swiveled with alarm. One word puffed out,

“Yes.”

“Whatever it was, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be loved.”

“I know that, Rob.” Eames said with the faintest shadow of his laugh and smile. His eye lashes fluttered. “But it does probably mean I don’t deserve to be loved by _you_.”

“What does that mean?” Robert snorted. “I’m nobody special.”

“You were.” Eames said, and the past tense stung. “You were bloody Fischer-Morrow!”

“Maurice was Fischer-Morrow,” Robert corrected.

“Right. And you were the inheritor; vulnerable, and unpredictable to the world. You were the perfect target.”

“…What?”

“I was hired by Fischer-Morrow enemies to convince you to dissolve the empire.”

“I know,” Robert said with another light snort. “You told me that when you explained how you could be a lowly clerk in my office _and_ the shrink that sprung me from the loony bin after Dad died.”

“I misled you, Rob. I wasn’t hired after you announced your decision. My job wasn’t just to ensure you got out of the hospital and got your way. I was hired before Maurice even died.”

Robert’s voice popped in his throat like the words had a shell to break out of. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not your common con artist, love. I work in extraction.”

Robert’s eyebrows lifted. “ _Extraction_? You mean dream thieves?”

“One of the best actually,” Eames said with more of that faint shadow of old times. It dried up quickly and his eyes shifted away. “I can do things no one else can. I don’t just steal anymore. I can plant an idea in someone’s head with a PASIV device, and that’s what I did to you.”

The house fell silent. Robert blinked. His limps trembled, his eyes were burning. “What are you telling me?”

“Something you already know. Your entire life changed the day Maurice died, and you think that changed you, but it didn’t. _I_ changed you.” he swallowed. “I think I may have driven you mad.”

Chills pricked over every inch of Robert. “Say again?”

When Eames looked at him, it was with a look of such infinite sadness and self-loathing that his green eyes looked putrid in a long face Robert didn’t even recognize anymore. “I’m never going to complain about your work habits, Robert, because it’s my fault. I did it wrong. I didn’t just free you of your father and his company. The idea grew wrong, and now you think you need to be better than he was. If I don’t let you work, I fear you’ll tear yourself to pieces and I can’t—I can’t live without you.”

Robert's blood was running cold, his stomach was turning, his teeth were grinding. Eames was right, Robert wasn’t hearing anything that he hadn’t already known somehow, _somewhere_ inside, where hurricanes wore away cities with sand and lightening.

Except for one part: he would have never in his life have suspected such a monstrosity from the man he loved, _trusted_.

His whole body was beginning to shake. Robert rolled all his fingers into tight fists and blinked stinging eyes to keep them from tearing up. The nightmares, the answers Robert had let them--Eames--give him. All bullshit. All a trickster playing mind games. Playing Robert. For money.

“Get out,” he said, unable in his stringent control to move even his lips.

“Sweetheart,” Eames started, and Robert snapped.

“I SAID GET OUT!”

Robert might have hit him, the look that broke over Eames. He took a step back, green eyes falling to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Breath tore out of Robert’s nostrils, and his lips smacked when they opened. “Then why did you tell me?”

Eames looked at his fingernails, lashes dancing. “I couldn’t keep it in any longer.... You said you loved me.”

Robert flinched at the reminder of only a moment ago; it already sickened him. “I didn’t know you then.”

Pain parted full lips. “Robby, you—“

“ _Don’t_ call me Robby.” Robert said dangerously. His heart was beating hard, hot blood made his skin tingle. He wanted to break something. “And get out of my apartment before I call the police.”

Head down, Eames had his three bags together before Robert could even find the strength to move without shoving the computer off the desk and breaking everything else in reach. He turned slowly, watched Eames walked out of the room with his life on his back just as he’d walked in only months ago.

Robert followed, didn’t know why control at this point was so crucial, it just was. He was not going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing how deeply this little truth was cutting him. When the click of the front door echoed downstairs, Robert picked up the lamp and threw it.

...  …  …

_He ruined your life and made you thank him for it._

Robert looked at his reflection in the mirror the next morning with the ugly truth staring him back in the eye. He hadn’t slept a wink, recounted every word, every soft green eyed look. Under the harsh bright lights, Robert’s skin was pasty, his face gaunt, his eyes—he didn’t like to look too deeply there. Ice masked everything but his righteous anger. He brushed his teeth and for breakfast had a cigarette between his lips before he was all the way down stairs.

Work, coffee, some aspirin, and another cigarette for lunch; this became the norm—dinner, _food_ , came at irregular hours, if he thought about it, or Uncle Peter arranged it for business meetings. Robert wasn’t going to stop to look after himself at home, what was the point?

Work had never been so prosperous, so rewarding. With a savagery of which only Uncle Peter understood the nature, Robert became the kind of relentless, heartless, CEO who won the deals that made men rich. He had money, he had power, and that was absolutely all he needed.

He told himself this as he tried to strike his lighter for dinner one evening.

The damned thing wouldn’t work. It sparked and spat but no flame would catch. “Piece of shit,” Robert growled, trying rapid strikes. Where did he even get this—oh yeah. Robert threw down the silver cased lighter he’d stolen from Eames’s pocket during their first kiss.

Sick, pissed, starving yet not hungry for anything but another drag of nicotine that would calm his shaky limbs, Robert turned out every drawer looking for a light. There had to be one here _somewhere_ \--a _decent_ one. A _real_ one. Robert didn’t know how one lighter could be less real than another, but it had to be so. The silver one was— _disappointing_.

He stood, stepped, slipped. Something small and round under his shoe skated on the wood floor, stole Robert’s footing. He caught himself on the edge of the desk, saved his teeth from a cracking. He swore and looked to the corner where he heard the little nuisance spinning. It was probably the cap to that pen he’d lost or—

Nope.

Robert’s legs folded and he sank to his knees. Shaking, he reached to pick up a button. Green, silk clad. Tattered threads still reached for the hideous shirt on which it belonged.

Colors and shapes ran together and hot drops spilled past his eyelashes, splashed on the polished floor. Tears. Once acknowledged, they came faster, joined by snot and a deep croak from his throat.

He wiped at his nose with the back of a wrist, and his shoulders began to shake. Part of him fought this ( _it was never okay to cry like this, to break like this. Control. Keep control_.) But another part of him knew that he was alone, could deny it no longer. _It hurt. It hurt. It hurt, it fucking hurt to be alone._

“Eames,” he choked into the silent office. More tears came, stinging his eyes. More snot. Robert covered his face, pounded the floor with the fist closed around the button. “No!” he shouted. A sob choked him. He pounded both fists angrily. _This was undignified!_ “No!”

He screamed, ripping voice filling the apartment. He collapsed on his rear, hands in his hair. He was still shaking, and now he’d lost his cigarette too. Robert ran a wrist under his nose again, sniffed. Tears were running silently now.

“Eames...” he whispered. No answer. The conman was not miraculously back in his life like the button had suddenly made it feel, and there was no way to find him. Gone. Gone for good. A shuddering sob twisted his throat, and Robert gasped, pulling at his hair. “God damn you, Eames.”

_I still fucking love you._

...  …  …

“Robert, you’re the walking dead,” Uncle Peter said.

Robert did not know how he had arrived at his godfather’s front door. He had simply not been able to stay in his dark lonely apartment anymore. The button was still clasped in his palm.

He had been wandering the streets of New York all night, half hoping to get hit by a bus or mugged or something that would end his misery. Every broad shouldered man walking with his head down had made Robert do a double-take. Where was Eames? What could Robert do to locate him? Why had he disappeared like this? Surely he knew Robert had been over reacting just a little. Surely he knew that Robert could not live without him.

Surely it wasn’t all a con.

Robert’s knees wobbled beneath him and he had to swallow a sudden wash of bile in his mouth. He pressed a shaking fist to his pale lips. “Sorry, Uncle Peter.”

It was late, well past Browning’s business hours. The man stood on his welcome mat in house-slippers and silk smoking jacket over expensive pajamas. Robert’s move to dissolve the empire had greatly altered their lifestyles, but Browning had managed to cling to the small things.

“What’s the matter,” the older man asked, “is something wrong?”

Robert so rarely saw his godfather out of a business suit that the man was almost unrecognizable to him. He felt as if he was intruding on something entirely too personal, but Browning said nothing to that extent. In fact, he looked deeply worried and Robert realized it was okay to be here like this, because this wasn’t work. He had not walked here to talk about estimations and presentations. He was here as a godson, not a boss. His tie was undone, flapping limply in the dying autumn breeze.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he admitted.

“I can see that. Come in and sit down. Jesus H. Christ.”

The thin younger man swayed dangerously. “My head hurts.”

“I’ll get something. You need food. Look at you.”

Robert sank into the nearest chair, fingers kneading his pounding skull. He patted his pockets, found a pack. The bud stuck to his dry lips. “No, I’m fine. Do you have a light?”

Uncle Peter jerked the cigarette out of his mouth. “No I don’t. Have you eaten anything since our dinner with Sam?”

Rather than answer, icy blue eyes stabbed into Peter, measured and calculating. “If I said no would you have me committed again?”

“Fuck, Robert. You’re scaring me.”

“Just give me my fucking cigarette. I’m fine.”

“Then what in the name of heaven are you doing here?”

“I want to talk.”

“About what?”

Robert was quiet for a long stretch as his thin pale fingers tore the cigarette open slowly, unburned tobacco falling like dust onto the carpet at his feet. “How did you get over her?”

“Who?”

“The wife who only wanted your money.”

Peter sighed, sat on the couch beside him, “Time, and working eighteen hours a day.”

Robert pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes which were burning when they weren’t allowed to be, “That’s not good enough.”

“We can’t make time go any faster, son,” Peter sighed painfully. “Just try and hold out and keep moving forward. Trust that one day… it won’t be so bad.”

Robert drew a deep breath. Unwillingly his bottom lip trembled and he broke, admitted, “I don’t want to move forward! I want him back, I want him _back_.” He stood, hurried over to the window, fighting desperately for control.

“I don’t know how to find him, Peter. He always found me; I’ve never had a way to contact him. I told him to leave and never come back. He…” he dropped his head on the glass, eyes closed on tears slipping from his eyes. “I don’t care what he did anymore. I just don’t want to live without him. Jesus, _fuck_ , I need him!”

“Of course you do,” Peter said strangely. Robert barely noticed. His heart hammered away, screaming what he couldn’t say. _I’m afraid he only loved me out of guilt. What if he doesn’t love me enough to come back?_

Robert choked softly, “I threw him away… I lost him. I told him not to come back....”

“You were upset,” Peter said understandingly. He had moved to the bar and poured out a healthy measure. “He knew that you didn’t mean it.”

Robert snorted. He’d sounded sincere enough; Peter just didn’t understand.

“Um... Listen, Robert, don’t be angry with me,” the old man hedged. For the first time, the CEO lifted out of his misery and blinked at his uncle, really seeing his surroundings for the first time. The couch looked slept on; pillows and wrinkled blankets.

Uncle Peter stood with brandy in hand, a crooked smile on his face.

“What’s going on, Uncle Peter?” Robert asked.

For a moment it looked as if the old man would speak. Then he did not. Silently, he started down the hallway. Robert twisted to keep him in sight and found that they weren’t alone in the room. Eames stood at the end of the hallway.

Uncle Peter stopped and patted Eames good-naturedly on the back, like a father to his oldest son. “He showed up two nights ago. He’s been staying with me,” Peter said with one of his rare grins as he sipped the amber liquid.

When nothing happened immediately, the old man’s cockiness dried up. Then with a slightly lost look between them, Browning quietly excused himself and made a fast retreat from the room. The conman stood with his hands in the pockets of a hotel bathrobe, looking underfed but relieved enough to maybe cry. He turned his head to watch Browning go, and then when they were alone, he spoke in a low voice,

“You could never ever lose me, Robby,” he said softly.

Robert ran at him, going over the coffee table and into his arms.

“I don’t hate you,” Robert sobbed into his chest. “I wanted to but I couldn't and I didn’t mean any of what I said. I love you, Eames, and I ca—I can’t live without you. You’re forgiven, completely forgiven, just please, please come home.”

Blinking back tears, Eames wrapped his arms around Robert and buried his face in his neck. “No, love, it can't be that simple. You can't forgive me just like that."

"I can and will," Robert insisted through his sobs, "I already have."

"Gorgeous," Eames whispered as if it were a prayer. His grip on Robert slackened and the sheer relief coursing through Robert suddenly dropped like a stone. He stepped back enough to look up at the man, terrified to find nothing but guilt in those green eyes. "I trespassed into your mind, manipulated you, _brainwashed_ you, and then lied to you! I made you trust me and..." Pulling away and shaking his head, thumbing his nose. "No, Robert, I won't let you just..." his eyelashes fluttered, his voice was choked, "You deserve someone--"

"You," Robert cut in, anger cutting through the tears of his relief and the vice grip of his fear. "Don't you dare tell me who I should want. It's my heart, okay?"

Eames nodded, cowed into silence.

"Yeah, you were a total, shit." Robert spat, "I understand that part, okay? But you're also.... you..." His voice trailed off when Eames' eyes cut up to meet his. Heart hammering, Robert suddenly felt the need to sit down. He did so with his face in his hands, "You're the best goddamn thing in my life, fucked up as you are. And even if--" his voice caught, he took a moment and tried again, and his pride wouldn't let him look up from the carpet, "Even if you've been only pretending to care out of guilt, could you--could you keep pretending?"

Suddenly Eames was sitting right besides him, practically on top of him. "Never pretended to care about you, not ever. Hear me?"

Robert said nothing, only thinking of how Eames had always been so submissive, so passive, and it all had to be his way of making up for what he'd done. An intelligent, mature, prideful adult allowed himself to become the kept man of a spoiled rich brat--guilt, only, could have allowed that.

Eames' thick fingers pulled Robert's face around by the chin, "Hey."

Their eyes met and they simply looked at one another a moment. Then Eames' wet his plush lips with the flick of a tongue. "I risked everything for you, Robert. After declaring your sanity I was never meant to see you again, but I couldn't stay away. I couldn't... It was time to be happy for once and you made me so happy, just talking to me every day. I let you see the real me; it's been a long bloody time since anyone's done that." He looked away, dashing tears from his face. "I should have told you but I was afraid I'd lose you. I was selfish and foolish and... you can't hate me as much as I hate me, Robert. Just know that."

"I don't hate you," Robert said promptly, gripping Eames' knee. "I mean, I did, for a second, but just a second. And only because I love you so, so much."

Eames' mouth went up in one corner, "You say that a lot suddenly."

"I learned what it's like to lose you without saying it enough."

"Didn't lose me. I'm yours. Always will be. I’m never going to hurt you again," he whispered the oath, “Never.”

With a fresh sob, Robert threw his arms around Eames again. “I didn’t think I was ever going to find you. I didn’t know where to start looking.”

“I stayed close. I couldn’t leave.”

“Uncle Peter, though? You came here?”

“I was desperate, love. Completely mad. I might’ve even told him everything--but it wasn’t my fault, darling. He got me drunk.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbled out of Robert. “And he didn’t have you arrested?”

“You sound so surprised. Pete’s not a bad man. Ruthless business partner. Horrible cook. But not bad at heart, not really. He knows what you mean to me.”

Robert laughed again, curious as to what that might be exactly. It felt like something so big he’d never find a word for it. “Wow.”

Eames grinned into his hair and kissed his ear. Robert shook in his arms, and laughed wetly as he dropped the useless button, no longer attached to it. “Are you out of secrets yet?”

“That was the last one,” Eames promised through a smile. They were dancing, locked together and swaying, but Robert didn’t have the energy to stop it. “Except I might have dropped Pete’s toothbrush in the toilet by accident.”

“What the hell?” Browning demanded, giving away that he’d been eavesdropping. Robert and Eames laughed.

“Let’s eat something and go home.”


End file.
